Hippolytus or Phaedra: Act V

Theseus [to Phaedra]: What madness pricks thee on, all wildwith grief?What means that sword? or why these loud laments?Why weepest thou above the hated corpse?

Phaedra: Me, me, O savage ruler of the deep,Attack; against me send the monstrous shapesThat breed within the caverns of the sea,Whatever Tethys in her heart conceals,And ocean hides within his wandering waves.O Theseus, always ill of omen thou!Oh, never to thy loved ones safe returned,Since son and father by their death have paidFor thy home-coming. Thou of thine own houseArt the destroyer; ever baneful thou,Whether in love or hatred of thy wives.Hippolytus, is this thy face I see?Have I brought thee to this? What Sinis wild,What pitiless Procrustes mangled thee?What Cretan bull-man, filling all the caveOf Daedalus with his vast bellowings,Has rent thee thus upon his savage horns?Ah me! where now is fled thy beauty bright,Thy eyes, my stars? Dost thou all lifeless lie?Come back a little while and hear my words.'Tis nothing base I speak. With my own handI'll make thee full atonement, and will plungeThe avenging sword within my sinful breast,And so be free from life and guilt at once.Thee will I follow through Tartarean pools.Across the Styx, through streams of liquid fire.Let me appease the spirit of the dead.Accept the spoils I offer, take this lockTorn from my bleeding forehead. 'Twas not rightTo join our souls in life; but surely nowWe may by death unite our fates.Now die,If thou art undefiled, to appease thy lord;But if defiled, die for thy lover's sake.Is't meet that I should live and seek againMy husband's couch, by such foul incest stained?This wrong was lacking still, that, as if pure,Thou shouldst enjoy that union, justified.O death, thou only cure for evil love,For injured chastity the last resort:I fly to thee; spread wide thy soothing arms.Hear me, O Athens; thou, O father, hear,Thou worse than stepdame: I have falsely sworn.The crime, which I myself within my heart,With passion mad, conceived, I basely chargedTo him. An empty vengeance hast thou wroughtUpon thy son; for he in chastity,Through fault of the unchaste, lies there, unstainedAnd innocent.Regain thine honor now;Behold my impious breast awaits the strokeOf justice, and my blood makes sacrificeUnto the spirit of a guiltless man.How thou mayst recompense thy murdered son,Learn now from me--and seek the Acheron.

Theseus: Ye jaws of wan Avernus, and ye cavesOf Taenara, ye floods of Lethe's stream,A soothing balm to hearts o'ercome with grief,Ye sluggish pools: take ye my impious soulAnd plunge me deep in your eternal woes.Now come, ye savage monsters of the deep,Whatever Proteus hides within his caves,And drown me in your pools, me who rejoiceIn crime so hideous. O father, thouWho ever dost too readily assentUnto my wrathful prayers, I merit notAn easy death, who on my son have broughtA death so strange, and scattered through the fieldsHis mangled limbs; who, while, as austere judge,I sought to punish evil falsely charged,Have fallen myself into the pit of crime.For heaven, hell, and seas have by my sinsBeen peopled; now no further lot remains;Three kingdoms know me now. Was it for thisThat I returned? Was heaven's light restoredTo me that I might see two funerals,A double death? That I, bereft of wifeAnd son, should with one torch upon the pyreConsume them both? Thou giver of the lightWhich has so baleful proved, O, Hercules,Take back thy boon, and give me up againTo Dis; restore me to the curséd shadesWhom I escaped. Oh, impious, in vainI call upon that death I left behind.Thou bloody man, well skilled in deadly arts,Who hast contrived unwonted ways of deathAnd terrible, now deal unto thyselfThe fitting punishment. Let some great pineBe bent to earth and hurl thee high in air;Or let me headlong leap from Sciron's cliff.More dreadful punishments have I beheld,Which Phlegethon upon the guilty soulsEncircled by his fiery stream inflicts.What suffering awaits me, and what place,Full well I know. Make room, ye guilty shades;On me, me only, let that rock be placed,The everlasting toil of Sisyphus,And let these wearied hands upbear its weight;Let cooling waters lap and mock my lips;Let that fell vulture fly from Tityos,And let my vitals ever living beFor punishment. And thou, Ixion, sireOf my Pirithoüs, take rest awhile,And let the wheel that never stops its flightBear these my limbs upon its whirling rim.Now yawn, O earth, and chaos dire, receive,I pray, receive me to your depths; for thus'Tis fitting that I journey to the shades.I go to meet my son. And fear thou not,Thou king of dead men's souls; I come in peaceTo that eternal home, whence ne'er againShall I come forth.My prayers move not the gods.But if some impious plea I made to them,How ready would they be to grant my prayer!

Chorus: Theseus, thou hast unending time to mourn.Now pay the funeral honors due thy son,And bury these poor torn and scattered limbs.

Theseus: Then hither bring the pitiful remainsOf that dear corpse, and heap together hereThat shapeless mass of flesh, those mangled limbs.Is this Hippolytus? I realizeMy depth of crime, for I have murdered thee.And lest but once and I alone should sin,A parent, bent to do an impious thing,My father did I summon to my aid.Behold, my father's boon do I enjoy.O childlessness, a bitter loss art thouFor broken age! But come, embrace his limbs,Whatever of thy hapless son is left,And clasp them, wretched father, to thy breast.Arrange in order those dismembered parts,And to their proper place restore them. HereHis brave right hand should be. Place here the left,Well trained to curb his horses with the reins.The marks of his left side I recognize;And yet how large a part is lacking stillUnto our tears. Be firm, ye trembling hands,To do the last sad offices of grief;Be dry, my cheeks, and stay your flowing tears,While I count o'er the members of my son,And lay his body out for burial.What is this shapeless piece, on all sides tornWith many a wound? I know not what it is,Save that 'tis part of thee. Here lay it down.Not in its own, but in an empty place.That face, that once with starry splendor gleamed,That softened by its grace e'en foemen's eyes,Has that bright beauty come to this? O fate,How bitter! Deadly favor of the gods!And is it thus my son comes back to meIn answer to my prayers? These final ritesThy father pays, receive, O thou my son,Who often to thy funeral must be borne.And now let fires consume these dear remains.Throw open wide my palace, dark with death,And let all Athens ring with loud laments.Do some of you prepare the royal pyre,And others seek yet farther in the fieldsHis scattered parts.Let earth on her be spread,And may it heavy rest upon her head.